Leaving Home
by OakStone730
Summary: A conversation between Charlie and Arthur Weasley, after he has announced he wants to go to Romania to work with dragons. Gen!fic. Found this in my abandoned scene folder and thought I'd post it. Probably was written for an LJ comment!fest.
The back door screeched open and and swung shut. Sitting on the steps, Charlie braced his shoulders, readying himself for another argument with his mother. He didn't turn around, just continued to stare out at the blackness that was the garden. The moon had yet to rise and the sky was filled with stars. It was relief that he heard his father's heavier footsteps.

"C'mon on, then," his father said as he passed Charlie on the steps and walked into the darkness.

Charlie reluctantly stood and followed him. He wasn't ready for another confrontation but it was best to get it over with. As he walked down the garden path he could hear the rustle in the tall grasses, the gnomes out gathering slugs or, more likely, his mother's strawberries. The shed door was open and Charlie slipped inside. His father's back was to him, and he was digging into the back of the Muggle telly.

Arthur Weasley gave a satisfied grunt as he straightened up, a bottle for Ogden's best in one hand and two glasses in the other. He uncapped the bottle and poured a measure in each glass. Charlie took one and slumped into the broken rocking chair in the corner, automatically bracing his legs as it sagged crookedly. His father sat down on his stool and took a sip of whisky.

The last time they'd been in the shed like this together had been three years ago when his father, after many glares from his wife, had patted Charlie on the shoulders and said, "Time for a talk."

Charlie should have been warned what was coming by the burst of laughter from Bill, but nothing could truly have prepared him for the stumbling, stuttering birds-and-bees talk that Arthur had launched into as soon as they had sat down in the shed. Charlie had taken a few minutes to get the horrific images out of his head and had asked, snarkily, "That's interesting, Dad, but what about the bees-and-the-bees?" Arthur had blanched and dug out the bottle of firewhisky.

Tonight, though, was different.

"She's your mother, Charlie. She wants you in England where you'll be safe."

"Why doesn't she understand, Dad. I can't-"

"I'm not sure I do either." Arthur took a sip of the whisky, and set down the glass on the telly. "Why don't you explain it to me."

"I can't do what you want me to do, I mean, I could. I'm good enough at charms. I have the N.E.W.T.s I could get an apprenticeship at Gringotts or the Ministry. But..."

"It is good honest work."

"I know it is,. Da', I do. The thought though of sitting at a desk all day. Stamping papers and sending memos."

"But dragons, Charlie? That isn't child's play-"

"I'm not a child! I'm 18 years old. I'm a man and I know that this is what I want to do. You should see them. The dragons they are amazing. How they can fly and soar, in my wildest dreams I could never fly like they do. I want to help them. They are magical creatures and yet there are some who think they should be exterminated, chased down like vermin."

"That is because they are dangerous, Charlie. You know that, that is why your mother is so upset."

"There hasn't been a death at the Reserve in four years!"

"No, but there were three the year before that, and two handlers are permanently in St. Mungo's for the injuries they suffered."

Charlie stared down at the glass of whisky, rolling it in his hands. "Da, I'd rather live my life on the edge, knowing that it might all be over in the blink of an eye, but _living_ it. To be in the wilds of Romania with those amazing creatures, it is what I want. It would be a slow, painful death if I have to spend it inside a dreary office cell, miles underground."

"I know. I've known for a long time, Charlie, that you would follow a different path." Arthur Weasley stood up and threw back the rest of his drink. "Your mother will come around, she always does, but give her time."


End file.
